on the menu
by wild wolf free17
Summary: Ten Inch Hero drabbles -Priestly-centric, gen, slash, het-
1. Once you were beautiful

**Title**: Once you were beautiful

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Sylvia Plath.

**Warnings**: spoilers for movie; implied child abuse

**Pairings**: canon

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 590

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

He left behind the wimp who got bullied, the geek who always read and wrote, the kid who loved music more than football. He left behind the quiet, shy boy to become a loud, boisterous man.

Priestly is his armor, the shiny surface to hide the tarnished truth. Priestly is a distraction, a lie, someone he wishes he could be but will never truly become.

Tish has never looked at him as a man. Part of that is his appearance, he knows, the hair and the piercings and the tattoos. But he is always mocking her, trying to get noticed—ire is better than apathy.

Every time Tish looks past him to go home with someone new, his father laughs in his memory, calling him _loser_ and _fuck-up_, telling him he'll never get far in life, _useless as your bitch mother, little bitch boy._

He never learned to fight because Dad had been a champion boxer, but he sure did learn how to dodge.

Tish doesn't want Priestly. And, to be honest, he's a bit tired of Priestly, himself. It's been so long since he's thought about where he came from. Years since he's considered that kid. But Tish doesn't want who he is now, the lie, the bright distraction. So maybe she'll like who he was, quiet and shy Boaz.

(He loves his mother, but he's never forgiven her for his name.)

He cuts his own hair, washes out the dye, shaves the sideburns, takes out all the piercings. Each piece of his armor comes off slowly—it's harder than he'd thought, shedding Priestly. He's been Priestly ever since he left his father's house, since he decided to erase all evidence he'd ever known the man.

He's been Priestly so long he's almost forgotten how to be Boaz.

He doesn't have any clothes Boaz would wear, so he goes shopping. For the first time in years, he doesn't get horrified looks from old ladies or people glancing away with smirks. He doesn't know what to buy, so he asks for help. The words don't come easily because the salesgirl actually _sees_ him, Boaz and not Priestly. His armor is gone and he's forgotten what to do when he's not sarcastic and witty and so loud the world looks away.

But the salesgirl, Rebecca, is patient. She waits him out with a kind smile, and after he's made his selections, she says quietly, "I'll miss the hair."

When he looks at her in shock, she adds, "But this style is nice, too."

He blushes, smiling shyly, and softly thanks her. She pats his arm and tells him, "Just be yourself. You'll knock her dead."

He ducks his head, words failing him—again—but she just gently pushes him towards the door.

Priestly couldn't win Tish. Priestly was just a mask.

_And if she don't like your little bitch self any more'n she liked your gay self, huh, boy?_ Dad's voice demands; he flinches, clutching the bag of clothes.

But Dad is dead. He' dead and gone, and has no place in Santa Cruz.

So Boaz straightens his spine and strides out the mall, confident in Priestly's walk. He's not just Boaz and he's no longer Priestly—he can make himself anew, take pieces of both, finally and truly rise from the ashes.

He might not win Tish, but he'll present himself to her, not the sarcastic Priestly and not the stuttering Boaz.

Dad is dead, that drunken monster, but he'll finally be able to defeat the ghost by _trying_.


	2. Much have I seen and known

**Title**: Much have I seen and known

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Tennyson.

**Warnings**: spoilers for film; maybe slight AU?

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1050

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

She remembers him. She remembers the scared little boy who hobbled into her shop five years ago, broken in more ways than one. It was ninety-five degrees outside and he wore a threadbare suit under a heavy overcoat. The sun baked the street and he shivered, teeth chattering as he asked if she had a bathroom he could use. His right arm hung at an awkward angle, he couldn't put much weight on his right foot, and both eyes were red and rimmed with bruises. He shied away when she came close.

"Of course," she told him. "Follow the path—you can't miss it."

While he hid in the restroom, she swiftly ran across the street and bought a three-meat sub from the shop that had just opened. She considered for minute before buying a bottled-water and lemonade, too. Beneath the too-large coat, the boy was far too thin.

She got back to her store in time to see him sink to the ground, barely out of the bathroom. He stared up at her with weary, wary eyes. "I'll just sit here for minute," he mumbled. "Then, I swear I'll leave."

She knelt in the front of him, far enough away so that he didn't feel trapped, a wall at his back and her blocking the way to freedom. "I am Zoheret," she said. "I bought too much food for lunch. Would you help me so that nothing goes to waste?"

He chuckled, head drooping. "I don't want pity," he said so softly she could barely hear him.

She held out the sandwich, half unwrapped. "It's not pity." She waited until he met her gaze. "You would be doing me a favor."

His hand trembled as he took the sandwich and she rose to her feet, went back to rearranging her shelves while he ate. She left the two bottles within his reach.

He joined her at the front nearly an hour later. He'd eaten only a fourth of the sub, but all the lemonade and most of the water was gone.

"I'm Bo," he said. "Thank you."

She smiled at him. "I have a guest-room, Bo. It's all made up; I knew someone would come."

He looked down. "I don't—I can't—"

"Listen," she said gently. "I expect nothing from you except that you heal. One of my friends is a retired doctor. Will you let him look you over? That is the only payment I'll ask of you."

Bo's eyes were huge when he looked at her again. "Why?"

She would have patted his unhurt arm if she weren't sure it'd make him flee. Instead she held out a hand and he put the sandwich in it. "Follow me," she said.

He did.

o0o

Over the next few years, Bo grew his hair out and dyed it a dozen different colors. He lived in her guest-room and worked in her shop. He got tattoos and piercings and she never asked who he was rebelling against or why he flinched away sometimes. He healed and moved on; when he moved out into an apartment, she gave him her old car.

"Why?" he asked, his refrain at her undemanding kindness.

She smiled. "You need transportation," she said. "I'll be fine, Bo."

o0o

They went to the sandwich shop across the way for most of their lunches; the owner, Trucker, did not recognize her, but she had always known they'd meet again. It was one of the reasons she'd chosen Santa Cruz.

Bo steadily grew more confident, each piercing and tattoo and hair color and sloganed T-shirt another jab at whatever he'd escaped to come to Santa Cruz. She gently encouraged his interests and smiled when he bloomed.

"You know," she told him one night at their weekly supper, "The Beach City Grill needs you."

He stared at her. "You, you're kickin' me out?" he asked, and she saw the broken boy of that first day.

"No, no," she assured him. "But you are needed there. You'll always have a place with me, but your journey continues on."

"I—are you sure?" His hands tightened on the silverware clutched in his grip. "I mean, I can't leave the shop, right? You'll be alone."

She patted his hand. "Trust me, Bo."

He met her gaze, his eyes ringed with make-up instead of bruises. His hair was in purple spikes and his shirt read _Kiss me, I'm pretty_. "You can stay if you wish," she told him. "But you would do well there."

He inhaled deeply. "Okay," he said. "I'll apply."

o0o

They went together on Monday. She chose a table while he waited at the counter. The sweet girl, Jen, smiled at him. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"I—I'm here to see about a job," he said, faltering for a moment before pulling strength from his armor.

"Alright," Jen said. "I'll get Trucker."

As she headed for the back, Bo turned to face Zoheret. She nodded, sending him well-wishes. _You will do wonderfully, my dear_ _Boaz_, she thought.

"So, a new worker-bee," Trucker boomed, striding in. Bo flinched minutely. "Why do you wanna work here?"

Bo took a deep breath. "I'm trying to broaden my horizons," he said.

Trucker laughed. "Just a couple'a questions." He waited for Bo's nod. "Okay, first—name?"

Bo paused. Zoheret smiled when he said, "Priestly."

o0o

She remembers him well, that boy who barely made it into her shop. She watched him put on his armor piece by piece and leave Boaz behind to become Priestly, loud and strong Priestly.

At her wedding, she sees that Boaz and Priestly are both at peace within him. He is finally content, sarcastic and sweet, healed and whole. Whether he and Tish will last, Zoheret does not know, but her boy is happy.

And Trucker is radiant. After years, finally he is happy, too. She will spend the rest of her life causing him to smile and delighting in his pleasure.

Zoheret smiles at Priestly and blows Boaz a kiss. Five years ago, he limped into her life, bruised and beaten, almost broken. But he is strong now, her shy stray, her foundling, her sweet boy.

She has a husband and a son. Zoheret is so very happy, and Trucker pulls her into his arms.


	3. Give me new phoenix wings

**Title**: Give me new phoenix wings

**Fandom**: _Ten Inch Hero_/"Supernatural" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Keats

**Warnings**: spoilers for movie

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_I can't believe you let that fucker get the drop on you_, Dean grumbles while he's trying to sleep.

_I'm Priestly now_, he explains. _Priestly doesn't know how to fight. _

_What the fuck ever,_ Dean growls. _You're wearin' my face, dude. Tomorrow, we're goin' to the gym and I'm showing you how to kick ass. _

_I don't fight! _Priestly tells him. _And I won't._ He rolls out of bed and goes to the bathroom, looks in the mirror. He didn't take his eye-shadow off but all the piercings are out and his hair is purple, sticking up everywhere. _See that?_ he asks. He's in pretty good shape, but he knows that Dean was fuckin' built.

_I just..._ Dean says.

_I know_, Priestly responds, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes. _But I'm not you, Dean. I'm not you._

He feels Dean sink back, deep into the darkness at the edge of his mind. _I'm sorry_, he says. Dean doesn't respond. He won't, that Priestly knows from experience. For a few days, he'll be alone in his head again.

He goes back to his bed, crawls under the covers. He stares at the ceiling, remembering a brother he never had.


	4. we’re neither of us running

**Title**: we're neither of us running

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Adrienne Rich

**Warnings**: spoilers for film

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 570

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

After the girls fell asleep in a tangle on the couch, Trucker gestured for Priestly to follow him out.

"I know we all have secrets," Trucker said. "But I've seen you move. You could've put that fucker down."

Priestly ducked his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know—I left it behind seven years ago." He took a deep breath, slowly let it out. "It's not my instinct anymore to aim for the weak-spot, to go in for the kill. He caught me off-guard, and I was getting ready, you know?" He darted a glance at Trucker, looking young beneath the tattoos and piercings and crazy-ass hair. "But then you were there."

Trucker nodded. "Army?" he asked, doubting it.

Priestly laughed. "Nope," he said. "I've never been in any branch of the military, Trucker."

"So where'd you learn?" Trucker sank back onto the bench, giving the kid space; he looked like he was about to bolt, and Trucker was too old and tired to chase him down.

"My dad, he was veteran." Priestly raised a hand to rub his shoulder. "Real hard bastard." He chuckled. "Dad wanted a fighter, someone like him. I never was good enough, but I learned anyway." He stared at his hands, making fists, and then let his arms fall. "I learned, Trucker, 'cause he beat it into me, but I never loved it, and finally I ran."

Trucker let silence build between them, allowing Priestly time to rebuild his defenses. Once Priestly seemed in control again, he asked gently, "You ever killed?"

Priestly closed his eyes. "Yes," he said softly. "Just the one time. Not too long after I ran." He met Trucker's gaze. "I didn't look like this, then. And I—" He stopped, breathing deep. "Trucker," he finally said. "I don't practice anymore. I stopped after I killed that guy. He was bastard, and I don't know how many boys he'd hurt, but I killed him, Trucker."

Lowering his head, Priestly rubbed at his eyes, smearing his make-up all to hell. "I killed him," he repeated softly.

Trucker stood and strode to his very first stray. Priestly was hunched over enough that he had to look up at Trucker, and Trucker pulled the boy into his arms. Priestly tensed, then loosened, and finally rested his head on Trucker's shoulder, his hands fisted in Trucker's shirt. "You're a good boy, Priestly," Trucker whispered. "Let that guilt go."

He rubbed Priestly's back, just holding him, and never mentioned the almost silent sobs.

When the boy pulled away, Trucker looked him in the eye and said, "We're gonna start practicing again, three times a week."

Priestly nodded. Trucker quickly ruffled his hair, chuckling as Priestly yelped, and then they went inside. Trucker waited till Priestly had stretched out on the floor in front of the couch and tossed a blanket on him before going to his room.

Trucker knew he'd dream about the blood on his hands, all those men he'd killed, but he didn't count on the nightmare where Priestly fought desperately and fell anyway. He woke panting to someone making noise in his kitchen. Relief made him sigh.

All his strays were safe. He could breathe easily and ignore the ghosts.

"Yo, Trucker," Priestly yelled. "Where's your flour, man?"

"Let him sleep!" Tish said.

"But there's no system," Priestly said, then louder, "Trucker!"

Trucker laughed and rolled out of bed, padded down the hall.


	5. O for the touch of a vanished hand

**Title**: O for the touch of a vanished hand

**Fandom**: _Ten Inch Hero_/"Supernatural" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Tennyson.

**Warnings**: AU for SN before pilot; slight AU for TIH

**Pairings**: canon

**Wordcount**: 1830

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

It happened the winter Dean turned sixteen. He and Dad were hunting a werewolf; Sam stayed back the room, three towns over. Dean made the kill-shot and they burned the corpse. Dean was riding high, thrilled and excited, and Dad was distracted enough to drive off the snow-covered road into an ancient oak.

Dean woke up a few days later, but he was no longer Dean.

He'd been found, he was told, in a car. An older man had been in the driver's seat, dead. There'd been half a dozen IDs, but none with his face or name. He remembered how to walk and talk and flirt, but nothing of his past remained.

He spent a month in the hospital, called _kid_, _sweetie_, and _honey_, but no family ever claimed him. Once he was all healed up, they had to release him, and the system took him in.

The first time a foster-brother picked on him, he broke the boy's arm and realized he was dangerous. He went to school under the name Michael Smith, which he'd pulled out of hat; he knew math and the basic sciences, but English and history held no interest and he didn't bother to relearn what he'd forgotten. But when he discovered music, he fell in love. All music, any music, from hard rock all the way down to classical. He listened to it all.

By senior year, he'd aced the math and science classes while floundering in all the rest, and had pierced everything pierceable. He had two tattoos and bloody nightmares about guns.

He never felt like a Michael. He answered to it but never internalized it, and after graduation, he left Connecticut and headed for California. He shed the skin of Michael, trying out identities on the way to the Pacific. In every town, every time he got picked up by the side of the road, he became someone new. Finally, in Santa Cruz, smelling salt air, he settled on Priestly, a rebel with his own voice, no past, and an opinion on everything.

He thought he might be twenty-two when he got there, but couldn't be sure. He experimented with hair colors and styles, and listened to a new CD every day. He'd tried a dozen jobs on his way across the country and discovered an affinity for cars.

After a few months in Santa Cruz he found two sources of employment: the Beach City Grill and a garage just down the street from it. To celebrate lasting employment, half a year in, he had a long design tattooed down his neck.

Priestly still had bloody nightmares about guns. He sometimes felt like he was casing places, picking out the threats, deciding how to put them down with minimal fuss. To stay sharp—there must've been some reason he knew how to fight—he visited a martial arts studio weekly.

Twelve years after waking up, he had Trucker and Tish and Jen, and then Zo and Piper, and it was enough. It had to be enough. But Tish fucked anything that moved, except him, so he decided to try one last thing. He removed the piercings, shaved the sideburns, and washed out the dye in his hair. He stared at himself in the mirror—a stranger looked back, a man with no past and no name.

He walked into the Beach City Grill as someone he couldn't remember ever being and Tish's mouth dropped open. "_Holy shit_," she said.

He fumbled his lines, asking her out, and she demanded only one thing: his real name.

Priestly dropped his eyes. "I don't know," he said. "I woke up in a Connecticut hospital twelve years ago with no memory of who I'd been."

She studied him for a moment, face softening. "Tish is short for Platicia," she confessed and then told him to pick her up at seven.

They spent almost a year as a couple before deciding they'd be better as friends. Priestly kept the ear and nose studs but grew his hair out some. He worked insane hours at the garage, but stayed at the Grill two days a week.

His bloody dreams got bloodier and sometimes he heard a man scream _Dean!_

Priestly had never fired a gun. He didn't like them. But after a particularly nasty dream—fire, smoke, blood, and pain—he went to a shooting range, borrowed a gun, and shot a target between the eyes, through the heart, and in the crotch. He lowered the gun in shock. Who had he been before that car accident? The car was full of weapons; he remembered being asked about them. But he had no identity. He had a dead stranger and IDs with half a dozen names, none of which had his face.

He had been dangerous. He was still dangerous, and he gently set the gun down to stare at his hands.

He could have killed Tad that night. He'd wanted to, and that desire had kept him on the ground. If Trucker hadn't come out, Priestly honestly didn't know what he would've done, and he stared at his hands in horrified wonder. He felt the fury welling, that night on the ground. He felt the violence in him waiting to be uncoiled.

Priestly left the range and went to his apartment where he took a long shower. He scoured his skin till he bled, but that night he had a nightmare anyway.

Priestly was late to the Grill the next morning. He didn't bother putting in any of his studs or any make-up on, and he wore old, ratty clothes.

"Somethin' wrong?" Trucker asked.

Priestly shook his head. "Just bad dreams," he said. "Nothing new."

He worked with only half his mind, most of him trying to piece together the clues into something resembling an answer. So he could fire a gun pretty good. He could kick some ass. He still had no name, and no family to claim.

"Priestly," Jen said and he turned away from the grill to focus on her. "Piper called in sick, Trucker went for a walk with Zo, and Tish is on break. Could you take the counter while I run to the bathroom?"

"Sure, Jen," he replied. "No problemo."

She smiled at him and headed for the back. It was the middle of the morning, so there wasn't any crowd. He drummed on the counter, straining his memory for anything before Connecticut. But there was nothing, just a blank, a dark chasm that had only bloody nightmares about guns and sometimes a man screaming _Dean_.

_Was I Dean?_ Priestly wondered. _Is that my name?_

A bolt of pain shot through his Priestly's head so he shifted his thoughts to a car at the garage.

"Okay, Sam," a tall blonde said into her cell, coming into the shop. "I gotta go order, so get your ass over here." She nodded. "Love you too, babe. Hurry up!" She flipped her cellphone shut and slipped it into her pocket, stepping up to the counter and smiling at Priestly.

"What can I get you?" he asked, pen and pad ready.

She glanced at the menu. "A ten-inch club and a six-inch three-meat , please," she said.

He jotted that down. "Any drinks, salads, or sides?"

She thought for a second. "Lemonade, Coke, potato chips, a chocolate chip cookie, and a cupcake."

He nodded. "Okay, miss, that'll be fifteen thirty-seven." He glanced up. "Cash or credit?"

She handed over a twenty and leaned in conspiratorially. "My boyfriend'll be here in a few minutes and it's his birthday. Is there any way I could get a candle for the cupcake?"

Priestly grinned. "Hell yeah, girl," he said. "Give me a second—I know we have candles in the back."

She smiled. "Thank you," she said.

He passed her the cups and opened the register, but she told him, "Keep the change," and went to the drink dispenser.

Headed for the back, he ran into Jen. "Hey, do we have candles?" he asked.

She looked around the messy room. "Somewhere, I think. Why?"

"I promised a customer we could put a candle on her boyfriend's cupcake," he explained.

Jen bit her lip and thought for a moment. "Well, I have no idea where they are. I'll go buy some. You stay here."

Priestly returned to the front to see Tish back and a giant sitting across from the tall blonde, holding her hand. They were smiling and laughing, and the giant ducked his head, blushing.

"Freakishly adorable, right?" Tish asked.

Priestly nodded, chuckling, and pressed a fond kiss to the top of her head before quickly making the lovebirds' sandwiches and loading up the tray. They already had the cookie and chips, so Priestly waited for the candle.

Jen rushed in with a pack of green candles. "It was all they had," she said. "Will it work?"

Priestly nodded. He opened the pack and stuck one of the candles into the cupcake, lighting it.

"Should we sing?" Jen asked.

Priestly shook his head. "I'll take the tray out to 'em."

The giant looked up in shock when Priestly stopped at the table and said, "Delivery for Sasquatch."

"Jess!" he hissed. "I told you not to celebrate!"

The tall blonde, Jess, said, "You tell me that every year, Sam. I never listen." She took the sandwiches off the tray while Priestly set the cupcake in front of Sam. Jess continued, "Blow out the candle and make a wish."

Sam met Priestly's eyes. "Thanks," he said sincerely. "You didn't have to do this."

Priestly grinned. "It was nothing. So, how old is the birthday boy?"

"Twenty-four," Jess answered. "And he'll be a kick-ass lawyer soon."

Sam ducked his head. "She's exaggerating."

Patting the kid's shoulder, Priestly said, "Blow out the candle and make a wish, Sam." He backed away, leaving the two lovebirds to their early lunch. He watched them till they left, Sam throwing a grin over his shoulder and Jess waving.

Something about the kid was familiar, but Priestly shook it off and cleaned the grill before clocking out to head to the garage.

That night, he dreamed about teaching a little boy to shoot a gun. _Always aim like you mean to kill, _he said. _Otherwise, it's a bullet wasted. Got it, Sammy?_

The little boy replied, _Got it, Dean_.

Priestly took some of his vacation time the next day and went for a long walk on the beach. He had a choice—wonder about who he'd been forever or move forward, fully embrace Priestly.

As the sun set across the water, he made up his mind. Whoever he'd been, that boy died in a car wrapped around an oak tree during a Connecticut winter. No one claimed him. He knew some dangerous shit, and cars.

But Priestly liked music and old movies and shirts that said stuff. And if Priestly sometimes dreamed about that dead kid's life(Dean's?), no one ever had to know.


	6. The world was all before them

**Title**: The world was all before them

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Milton.

**Warnings**: goes AU during movie

**Pairings**: Priestly/Jen

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1860

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: from the first time I watched the movie, I wished Priestly had been Jen's online buddy. *shrugs*

* * *

"Bo, man," Jeff says. "This is unhealthy."

Priestly shrugs on his shirt, responding, "So, you won't do it anymore?"

Jeff sighs, sounding tinny over the phone. "Of course not, dude. I'm here for you. Just email me the script; I'll do it while I'm studying."

"Thanks, Jeff," Priestly says, turning to hit _send_. "I gotta go to work. Talk to you later."

o0o

At the shop, Piper and Jen giggle together while Tish hunts for a new man and Trucker moons over Zo. Priestly keeps to himself, thinking about Jeff's comment—is what he's doing unhealthy? Jeff told him, back when he first realized Jen's ladybugger, that he should have mentioned it to her. Should have said, _Wait, you're ladybugger? No way—I'm fuzzy22._

But he didn't do that. Months later, he still hasn't. He doubts he ever will, because too much time has passed. Jen's so insecure she'll think he's been mocking her, and he's really _really_ not.

The computer dings and Jen lights up, hurrying to respond. Priestly smiles, watching her.

o0o

Jeff goes off-script one day, suggesting to Jen that they meet. Priestly requests a break and calls Jeff to demand on explanation.

"You should tell her, Bo," Jeff says. "All you ever do is talk about her."

"That's not up to you!" he hisses into the phone. "I can't—she'll never talk to me again."

"Bo," Jeff says. "Man up. You're lying to one of your best friends."

Priestly hits his forehead with the cell. "This is gonna go so bad," he mutters. "I fuckin' hate you."

"She just responded with an affirmative," Jeff tells him. "I'll change fuzzy's mind, if you want."

"No." Priestly stands up, looking back into the shop, where Tish and Piper crowd around Jen, all staring avidly at the screen. "You'll go with me, right?"

Jeff sighs. "Bo, dude—"

"Jeffrey. Please." Priestly closes his eyes.

"Of course I'll go with you, pussy," Jeff says.

o0o

Priestly doesn't get the weekend off like the girls. He would if he told Trucker the truth, he knows. But after closing, he hurries to their meeting point, and gets there just in time to see Jen hurry out in tears, Piper and Tish following.

He walks in, glances around; Jeff is at the bar, a rose beside him. "Dude," he asks, settling next to him. "What happened?"

Jeff shrugs. "I never saw her."

Considering that, Priestly glances at the door. "I don't—" He lets his head slam on the counter. "I hate you," he mutters.

Jeff pats his back. "It'll work out, kiddo. Now, get up here and tell me what's been goin' on in your life."

o0o

On Monday, Priestly acts like he has no idea how the meeting went. When he finds out why Jen left, it's like a punch in the gut. She didn't speak to Jeff because he was handsome. She judged him like she hates to be judged.

He stares at her, mouth open. "You refused to even _talk_ with him?" he finally asks. Priestly has spent the past ten years trying to forget Boaz and his supermodel looks. If he didn't have crazy-ass hair, a dozen tattoos, and more piercings than natural holes, Jen wouldn't even talk to him. "I thought better of you," he says and stalks out.

o0o

fuzzy22 doesn't contact ladybugger for a week. Jen mopes around the shop and Priestly is icily polite.

As expected, everyone takes her side. Priestly understands and doesn't blame them. Not like they know the truth, after all.

Jeff apologizes to him, but Priestly just mutters that he should forget it.

"Did you at least tell her why you're so pissed?" Jeff asks once.

"No." Priestly stares out over the beach, lighting a cigarette. "What's the point? Maybe it's time I moved on, Jeff."

"You told me you quit smoking," Jeff says sharply. Priestly can imagine his look of disgust.

"I just started again." Priestly looks at the small flame dancing in the salty breeze. "Do you think I should head farther south?"

"No, I don't," Jeff says. "You told me a month ago that Santa Cruz is the best out of anywhere you've stayed."

Priestly sighs, dropping the cigarette onto his balcony. "That was true a month ago." His voice is quiet. "Things change."

"Don't give up on this girl, Bo—_Priestly_," Jeff tells him. It's the first time he's ever used the name. "You need to talk to her, let her know everything. Explain why. She'll—if she's the girl you've described to me, she'll listen, give you a chance."

"Jeff, she ran because of how you look." Priestly laughs softly. "How do you think she'll react to Boaz?"

"But you're not Boaz anymore," Jeff points out. "You're Priestly, with tattoos and piercings and crazy-ass hair. She likes you. Just talk to her. Tell her the truth."

Priestly stays quiet for a minute, thinking. "If she hates me, I can come stay with you, right?"

"Of course." Jeff waits a moment, then says, "So, written anything good lately?"

o0o

Monday night, Priestly goes to Jen's apartment. He sits downstairs for half an hour, gathering courage. Besides Jeff, she's the one person he's actually felt close to since he left his parent's house. If she hates him now…

He's lied to her. She'll think he's spent the last few months mocking her, which is so far from the truth—but why should she believe him? This last week, all he's done is dig his grave deeper.

Time to man-up. At least he's got a bolt-hole with Jeff.

o0o

Priestly knocks on the door and waits. A little old lady walks down the hall, glaring at him. "Leave that good girl alone," she hisses. "Jen doesn't need your kind sniffing around."

He grins at her, turning so that she can see his shirt: _Come take a ride on me_ it invites in bright green letters.

The lady blanches and hurries past. "I'm calling the landlord!" she says over her shoulder. "We don't want people like you here!"

Chuckling, he faces the door again, freezing when he sees that Jen's opened it and leaned against the doorway.

"Terrorizing grandmothers?" she asks.

He ducks his head. "I'm sorry for how I've treated you," he admits softly. "We need—I need to tell you something."

Jen gently lifts his chin with her fingers. Only after their gazes lock, does she say, "Come in."

o0o

He paces around Jen's kitchen while she sits at the counter, nursing a glass of sweet tea. She watches him silently as he gathers his words.

"Months ago," he says, "I realized something. I should have told you then, but I didn't. The more time passed, it just got harder." He pauses, looking at her. "I like you a lot, Jen. Not just as a friend."

Her mouth opens, but he barrels on, not giving her a chance to speak.

"My father died when I was twenty-two," he says, turning his eyes away. "And the best friend of my childhood was my neighbor's cat, Fuzzy."

"Priestly," Jen starts, after he's stayed silent for over a minute. "What are you telling me? That you're fuzzy22?"

He nods without glancing up from the floor.

"But I _saw_ fuzzy," she says.

"No," Priestly corrects. "You saw my friend Jeff. I got there late, just in time to watch you run out crying."

She stares at him. "I don't… I chatted with him while you worked half a dozen feet away."

Keeping his gaze on the floor, he explains, "I'm a writer. I emailed him scripts. I just… I like it when you smile. I wanted to see your face when you read my words."

"So… you've been playing me this whole time?" she demands, sounding somewhere between hurt and angry.

"No," he answers, finally looking up at her. "You were happy, Jen. I didn't want to ruin it for you. Jeff's been tellin' me for weeks that you deserved to know. He thought that—well, he suggested we meet, not me."

"Why did you freak out?" She stares down at her glass. "When I saw fuz—Jeff and left. Why did that bother you so much, Priestly?"

He sighs. "My whole life, people judged me because of how I looked," he says. "You too, right? You hated it. But then you—you left him sitting there, Jen. If you'd seen me, what would you have done?"

"I'd have gotten angry," she replies. "I would have run away and yelled at you later."

"No," he murmurs. That isn't what he'd meant. And now that he's here, telling the truth, she should know who he was. Why he got so furious. "Jen," he says. "Can I use the bathroom?"

She shrugs. "Sure."

o0o

He takes out the piercings and wipes off the make-up. His hair is still in a colored mohawk, so he pulls off his shirt and ducks his head into the sink. The color washes out easily and he feels a moment of panic. What is he doing? He hasn't looked like Boaz in almost ten years. Only Jeff even knows who Boaz used to be.

"Priestly," Jen calls, tapping the door. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he calls back. "I'll be right out."

In the mirror, he looks so young. A kid playing dress-up, wearing press-on tattoos. He dries his face and hair, slips his shirt back on.

o0o

"Hey," he says, walking into the kitchen. Jen glances up from her book and her eyes widen, mouth dropping.

"Holy fuck," she says. "Priestly."

"Jen," he begins, "I'm fuzzy22." He glances at her, then back to the tops of his shoes. "I'd like to take you to dinner sometime."

"Priestly, look at me."

He slowly lifts his head. This was such a bad idea. He shouldn't have come here. Should've just left town, gone to Jeff's for awhile.

Jen steps up and gently touches his face. "You're gorgeous," she whispers. "Priestly, why do you hide this?"

He smiles sadly. "Because people judged me. Didn't look any closer. I had no choice what they saw then, so I changed it. Gave them something else to see." And stopped calling him _pretty boy_, thinking they could—

Her hand drops. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Priestly shrugs. "I thought you'd be disappointed. And then I figured too much time had passed."

Jen examines his face silently. He waits, measuring his breaths. "You still want to take me to dinner?" she asks. "Not Tish?" She avoids his gaze.

He steps in close, raising her chin with his fingers until she meets his eyes, this time. "Listen to me, Jen," Priestly says quietly. "You are the most beautiful person I know. Please let me take you out and show you how gorgeous _you_ are."

She blushes. "Oh, okay," she stutters. "I guess."

He moves in slowly, giving her time to realize and back away if she chooses. When she doesn't, when she stays right there in front of him, staring up, he softly presses his lips to hers.

It's not the best kiss of his life. But she gasps into his mouth, and her hand clenches around his arm, and Priestly wants to make her smile forever.


	7. rebellion

**Title**: rebellion

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: pre-movie; mentions of child abuse

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 185

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: pink hair

* * *

The first color he ever dyed his hair was pink. After, he hid in his room till supper and then marched down the stairs in all black with bright pink hair and some of Mom's eyeliner.

As expected, his father flipped the fuck out. Since the entire look was such a blatant first slap, his mother didn't even try defending him.

She apologized later, but he never really blamed her for that.

He was fourteen, with pink hair, a broken arm, and bruised ribs. Mom drove him to the hospital and they explained to the tired, cold doctor that it was a football game turned brawl. His team lost spectacularly.

On Monday, he had brown hair again. He was still Boaz then. Priestly wouldn't arrive for three years.

Priestly dyed his hair pink on a Monday. When Dad tried to attack him at dinner, Priestly shoved him aside and left. Priestly didn't stop leaving until he hit California, and there he stayed.

He dyed his hair at least once a month, oftentimes more, his _fuck you_ to a past he never really believed he escaped.


	8. a change of scenery

**Title**: a change of scenery

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: pre-movie

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 180

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: curried

* * *

Boaz had been boring. He didn't excel at anything except being pretty—not at sports or school or hobbies. He was middling all the way.

Boaz went to college for a medical degree, attended for three semesters, and then dropped out. He did well enough—middling all the way—but he didn't love it. He finally decided to stop wasting money and time, and headed out west.

Boaz had no dreams, no plans. He'd followed his parents' path. He'd have a boring, miserable life, and then die a boring, miserable death.

Boaz stared at the Pacific Ocean. His hair was long and messy, his clothes threadbare, and he hadn't eaten in three days. He'd never felt so alive.

He saw a help wanted sign at a brand-new sandwich shop. Boaz would never work there—too wrapped up in his father's idea for his future.

"Name?" the owner asked, scribbling notes on a scrap of paper.

Boaz lived in the Midwest, middling all the way.

"Priestly," he said.

The next day, before heading to work, he got his first tattoo.


End file.
